


Children Behave

by sarkywoman



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: She knows the children are not supposed to play together, but they cannot study all the time and there aren’t enough staff for one nanny per child anymore.For the 'Reluctant Caretaker' square at badthingshappenbingo on tumblr. At the Academy's beginning there were seven nannies... what happened to them?
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Children Behave

Vera rushes back through the corridor with the little bottle of formula, towards the loud whine of the infant. The other nannies glance up at her judgmentally as she dashes past the open bedroom doors. Her charge is the smallest, the most frail, yet the _loudest_. Day and night he wails with a strength one would not expect from him, often going crimson from screaming. Often it doesn’t even seem like distress, but anger. It’s the furrow of his little brow, the glare of his little eyes. Barely born, but with such a mature expression. People often say babies look like angry, wrinkled, little old men, none moreso than this one. 

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Vera calls as she nears the room that rings with screams. “I just had to fetch your dinner...”

The screaming stops abruptly. There is no way he could have recognised the words, though. 

She pushes the door open and strides over to the crib. 

This scream is hers. 

“He’s gone!”

When one of the others Hayley, cradling her duty in her arms, comes to the door to see what’s wrong, Vera screams it again. “He’s gone!”

“What have you done with him?” Hayley asks. 

“Nothing! He’s gone!”

“He was just here, Vera. He’s a baby, he can’t have just wandered off!”

None of them believe her. Sir Reginald Hargreeves is deeply displeased at the loss of his fifth child and Vera is escorted from the premises by police. They interrogate her for three hours before receiving a phone call from Sir Hargreeves and releasing her without explanation. 

*

“No snatching now,” says Tamara, when she glances at the toddlers over her magazine. Gina has an appointment, so she has left Two with her and One. The boys do not play well together. Both play well enough with the others – except sneaky Five – but Mr Hargreeves has different instructions for their care and it is clearly leading to conflicting temperaments in the boys. 

Tamara doesn’t envy Gina’s work. Two has an intense schedule for a toddler and Gina is forever receiving feedback regarding the tone she uses around him and her lack of discipline. Conversely, Tamara is given a certain amount of freedom around One’s schedule and she is advised to be encouraging, borderline affectionate. When she speaks to Two in the same way she can see the confusion on his adorable little face. 

“You do have an adorable little face,” she tells the boy as she thinks about it. She thumbs one of his chubby little cheeks. “You’ll grow up to be quite the heartbreaker!”

One grabs the toy that Two is holding with such force that Two falls over onto his bottom. 

“One!” Tamara exclaims, shocked. He doesn’t normally misbehave so blatantly in front of her. “Give that back to your brother!” They’re not _exactly_ brothers. It’s a weird set-up, but Mr Hargreeves allows the familial language.

“No!”

She raises her eyebrows. One is not usually disobedient. “Don’t make me get your father.” It’s clear that he’s intimidated by the man. She’s hopeful she won’t have to follow through with the threat.

He cradles the toy closer to his chest. Tamara grabs it and tugs it back, but he holds firm. She pulls harder.

“Give it here now, Two was playing with it.”

Shaking his head fitfully, One doesn’t want to let it go. Well she’s an adult, so he’s not likely to win a tug of war. She wrests it from his grip, though it took more force than it should have.

His little hand grabs her wrist and tugs. 

There’s a snap.

Her scream sends Number Two racing from the room on his little toddler legs crying for help.

In the hospital two hours later her mother writes out a resignation letter for her. With the metal rods used to hold her arm together, Tamara won’t be writing anything for a long time. 

* 

“I have a bad tum...”

Nisha huffs as she finishes putting the toys away. She looks over to the complaining little boy, who clutches his middle dramatically.

“How convenient Number Six, that your tummy ache stops you just at tidy up time!”

“It does,” he whines.

“Nonsense. You were fine at dinner. In fact, it was probably wolfing it down so quick that has made you feel sick now.”

“It’s not sick,” Six cries. “It’s another thing. It’s wobbly in my tummy.” He lifts his jumper to expose his little belly to her as if she could see the imaginary ache.

“You have been complaining of these pains for weeks now. Don’t you see your father isn’t going to fall for it?” Nisha closes the toy cupboard and stands up to look down at the boy. “And _neither am I_.”

Under his chubby child hands, Number Six’s skin ripples. No other word for it. Nisha blinks, unsure what she’s just seen. 

It happens again for longer.

“I’m scared,” Number Six whispers.

“We’ll… um… I’ll just get your father.” Nisha turns to leave the room when she hears a sound somewhere between the tearing of paper and the gurgling of something thick going down a drain. She looks back.

She shouldn’t have.

Six weeks later Sir Reginald makes his final visit to her mental health institution, finally piecing together the last bits of the puzzle around Number Six’s recent behaviour and the incident itself from her deranged mutterings. 

He leaves her to be cared for there. 

*

Number Four is a quiet and contemplative little boy… until he is left alone. Sir Reginald is looking at soundproofing his room to stop the boy from disturbing the sleep of the others when he talks in the night. 

“You shouldn’t, you know,” Lorraine says gently to her charge. “Growing boys need sleep.”

No response from the boy who sits drawing at his desk. He does look tired. He always does. Pale little thing, Four always seems more delicate than his siblings. A projection caused by his demeanour, Lorraine suspects. He has more imagination than the other children, seems less drawn to the material items around the house like toys or books. In the free time he often makes up his own stories and illustrates them with childish drawings. 

They always lean towards the morbid, but Lorraine assures the other nannies and his father that is perfectly normal. It is simply the way of some children, to play with ideas too big to comprehend.

“Who was it you were chatting away to last night, anyway?” She asks with a smile. His father had swung by the room early to insist upon a medical exam and some scans. His approach to raising the children was extremely eccentric, but that insistence seemed triggered by Four’s particularly talkative night.

“Sandra,” Four says.

“That’s a nice name for a friend,” Lorraine says after a moment, wondering where he had heard it. “It was my mother’s name.”

Four nods. “She said.”

“Who said?”

“Your mom. She told me that was her name.”

“That isn’t funny, Number Four,” she says.

Her sharpness seems to startle him. He drops a couple of his crayons and goes under his desk to get them. She looks at the drawing he has left. Long dark hair on a sad-faced stick person in a purple dress. 

When he clambers out to his feet he sees her looking at his art and smiles a little. “Is it right?”

“What?”

“She says she had a purple dress on. When you put her in the ground.”

A chill goes through her, visiting every inch of her so thoroughly that Lorraine shivers from head to toe. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, if one of the other nannies has been telling lies...”

“No,” Four says casually, sitting back down and beginning to draw the ground with green and brown crayons. Then he stops and twists in his seat to look back. He looks past her with such focus that Lorraine looks over her shoulder at the room as well. Seeing it still empty, she looks back to Four, who continues to watch… something. Then he looks back to Lorraine. “She says you lied. That your daddy was mean and you lied to policemen.”

“Stop it. Number Four, this is not a funny joke.”

He frowns and grabs his red crayon and scribbles a little on the paper. He holds it up, not to her but angled a little to her right. “Like this?”

Red has been slashed across the stick-woman’s face and neck. Lorraine snatches the paper and slaps him. Something tugs at her ponytail hard enough to make her spin around with a shriek, but there is still no one else in the room.

She marches to Reginald Hargreeves and tells him his son is haunted.

The man thanks her for her opinion and fires her for striking his son ‘without cause’, which she had done in full view of the cameras. 

*

“An ant!” Number Four exclaims to Number Two, proud of his idea.

Gina watches them over her needlework. She knows the children are not supposed to play together, but they cannot study all the time and there aren’t enough staff for one nanny per child anymore. She cannot be expected to retain Number Two’s strict regime while covering for lost colleagues. Number Four is frequently left with her and Number Two, who lights up at company.

Possibly a little too much. Gina suspects the other children could dare Two to do anything and he would, just to impress. Right now he seems to be thinking very hard about Four’s idea.

“It’s so tiny,” he says. 

“So you can’t?” Four asks.

“I can!” Two says.

“Sssh,” Gina reminds him. Two can be boisterous in company and she does not want their father asking what learning they are engaged in right now. Gina deserves a break as much as them.

“Can I borrow your needle please?” Two asks. 

“What?” Perplexed, Gina holds it out to him. “Why?”

Two does not answer, just takes it carefully from between her fingers and inspects it a moment. Number Four looks to be brimming over with excitement, dark eyes wide in his pale face as Two looks around the ground. 

Like a cat noticing prey, Two stills suddenly. His little hand flicks and the needle flies a short distance, thread trailing behind it. It hits the floor and sticks up at an angle. Four clasps a hand over his mouth and mumbles, “did you get one?”

Number Two grabs the end of the red thread pooled on the ground and tugs it up. The needle dangles between his and Four’s face as they inspect the needle like a pair of scientists eyeing a new discovery.

“You did it! You got the ant!”

“Alright boys, that’s enough.”

“A leaf on the tree next!”

Four’s excitement infects Two, all of Gina’s hard work over the years falling away in the face of an impressed friend. Reginald has berated her a number of times now for allowing standards to ‘slip’ where Number Two’s regimented routine is concerned. She’s starting to tire of it. How is it fair that a child be continuously told he is inferior to a brother? Number Two wants so badly for her to love him and approve of him and she is contractually obligated to treat him coldly. It’s cruel. 

“Hey Four, bet I could get that flower.”

“No way!”

Their delighted laughter is cut short by their father’s stern voice.

“Number Two! Number Four! What do you think you are doing? This is not recreation time!”

Gina sets down her needlework and stands from the bench as Reginald strides towards them. “Sir,” she says with a respect that has long-since withered.

“What are they doing?”

“Playing.”

“I did not authorise this. Both of you, go to your rooms!”

The boys lose all excitement and joy in their faces and they obediently trudge back to the house. Gina sighs and Reginald narrows his eyes at her.

“This needs to be rectified. Tomorrow you will instruct Number Two to perform his usual morning routines, but _seven_ times. He will then--”

“No.”

Sir Reginald blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going to torture your son on your behalf anymore. Did you see him just now? His little smile? These rules you insist on, they’re breaking him. You’re making _me_ break him. This is no way to raise a child.”

“You will perform the duties I demand, Ms Delaney.”

She shakes her head. “No, I won’t.”

“Then you will forfeit your employment.”

“And I will go to the papers.”

“Do what you will.”

Gina strides out of the Academy with her head held high. That night she pens a letter of apology and explanation to Number Two for when he is older.

Three days later, she dies mysteriously. 

*

Isabella loves looking after little Number Three. She is the prettiest girl in the whole wide world and everything she says and does is a delight. Looking after her is easy. Looking after her is fun. 

One evening, instead of studying, they do a little fashion show, her, Number Three and Number Four. It’s such fun. Fashion is better than studying. Playing is better than training. 

Number Three is allowed to wake up whenever she wants. She is allowed to go to bed whenever she wants. She is allowed sweets and fizzy drinks and all the chocolate she wants. She is allowed to doodle on her workbooks and draw patterns on her arms.

She is the best of the children, the cleverest of the children, the sweetest of the children. She is allowed a puppy. She is allowed a kitten. She should have the biggest room of the house. 

“Do you recall,” Number Three’s father asks, “what it was you did before looking after Number Three?”

“It wasn’t important,” Isabella says confidently. She had heard a rumour it wasn’t important. 

Three’s father sends a stern look over to Number Three, who is stood nervously nearby. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” He snaps. “You will fix it, of course. Or rather, attempt to. This has been going on for far too long. But we shall see what can be done.”

The other nanny Hayley stands watching by the door, worrying at her lip. Number Three approaches Isabella and takes her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“That’s alright,” Isabella reassures her. “You have never done anything wrong.”

“I heard a Rumour,” Three says, “that you don’t want to look after me anymore.”

*

Hayley sings to herself as she potters around the kitchen, tidying up the breakfast things. Her tasks are mostly domestic now that the children are growing up, with their unusual education and training left to Sir Reginald Hargreeves. It is far from easy, caring for seven children, but Hayley is proud of her tenure. Years she has been with this strange family now, her duties expanding with each colleague’s departure. She thinks of it as failure, an inability to adapt to such uniquely gifted children. 

Number One has learned not to act impulsively, which lessens the risk of injury from his impressive strength. Number Two has likewise been trained to utilise his abilities in combat situations only and is firmly rebuked if he acts wildly in social situations. Number Three is a clever girl, difficult to discipline, but easily redirected to harmless distractions. Number Four’s misbehaviour abates when ignored, so Hayley gives him as little attention as possible and allows his father to take whatever disciplinary measures seem appropriate away from the other children. Number Five also functions best with no supervision, so she treats him as a little master of the house and provides his dinners, cleans his room and makes approving noises at his ‘work’. Number Six is timid and obedient, no trouble at all aside from the occasional unsightly growths that Hayley refuses to look at. Number Seven…

Number Seven has still not finished her porridge. Hayley sighs. Although Number Seven has been her responsibility for the longest, she has become difficult since beginning her training with Sir Reginald. Hayley leans on the table and looks at the sulking child. 

“Your brothers and sister have all finished their oatmeal and begun their training for the day. Don’t you want to join them, Number Seven?”

No response. Number Seven is the quietest of the children, even moreso than shy Number Six or Number Two, who has developed quite the nervous stutter when he tries to communicate with anyone. 

“Is someone having a tough morning?” Hayley asks, as though this is not increasingly the norm for their mornings. Number Seven stares at her impassively with her big brown eyes, but Hayley is not dissuaded.

“You know what cheers me up, when I’m down? Singing.”

Anything to gain a reaction from the child. Hayley sings Lundi Matin-Comptines, waving the little spoon of oatmeal and slowly singing its path towards the little girl’s frowning face. 

Her long hair flutters slightly in a sudden breeze as the oatmeal approaches. 

Something hits Hayley like a brick wall, crushing her chest and throwing her backwards and she sees the oatmeal smash against the wall and she crashes into the coloured building blocks with their sharp corners. A pain shoots down her neck. She can’t breathe. She can’t move. 

She thinks she hears Sir Reginald say, “Number Seven!”

Then she hears nothing more.


End file.
